Good Time Girl (5 page)

In minutes, he had her writhing between his hands. Her hips undulated against his mouth in mindless entreaty. Her head thrashed against the bed. Her breath came in throaty little whimpers and panting moans, interspersed with disjointed pleas and fragmented demands.

“Oh, God… I… Yes. Oh, yes. There. Oh, please. Yes. Right there. Yes. Yes.
Yes!
”

The last yes came out as a strangled shout, a muffled scream that barely echoed off the thin walls of the motel room.

Satisfied with that, Tom lifted his head and pressed a soft kiss to the soft crinkly hair that covered her mound.

“Inside,” she demanded raggedly, nearly delirious with need. She yanked on his hair, trying to pull him up her body. “I need you inside me. Now. Right
now.
”

Tom didn’t have to be asked twice. He levered himself on top of her with a supple shift of his body, sliding up between her splayed thighs. His engorged penis nudged her slick folds, seeking the entrance to her soft, hot woman’s body. It took every ounce of his considerable willpower to keep from plunging into her. Instead, calling upon his last reserves of control, he pushed himself up onto his knees and reached for the top button on her blouse.

“The condom.” The words were gritted out between clenched teeth. His hands were trembling. “Where’s the damned condom?”

Roxanne pushed his groping hands away to retrieve it herself. “I’ll do it,” she said, curling the foil-wrapped packet into her fist when he would have taken it from her. “I want to do it.”

“Then do it,” he ordered.
“Quick.”

With hands that were surprisingly steady given the raging storm going on inside of her, she peeled the two halves of the foil wrapping back, tossed it aside, and reached down with both hands to sheath him. His penis was incredibly hot to the touch. Incredibly hard. She curled her fingers around his steely, latex-shielded length and guided him into her.

“Ride me, cowboy.” The words were a demand. A plea. A prayer. “Ride me hard.”

He drove himself into her with all the finesse of a sex-crazed adolescent mounting his first woman. His body was tense and quivering, muscles straining, hips pistoning wildly, madly, almost violently. Pounding into her, taking her, possessing her, riding her. Hard. Roxanne cried out, a feral sound of surrender and triumph both, and drove her hips upward, meeting him thrust for thrust. It was hot and wild. Untamed. Uncivilized. Out of control. Damp flesh slamming into damp flesh…breathing hot and labored…long callused fingers digging into soft giving flesh…long red nails pressing into hard straining muscles…lips parted, gasping for air…eyes closed tight to better savor the battering maelstrom of sensation…relentlessly driving each other to completion.

The mattress creaked beneath them, counterpoint to each powerful thrust. The headboard banged against the wall. The lamp wobbled on its stand. And still they hammered at each other, striving, straining, battling toward the ultimate peak of physical sensation.

And then all of Roxanne’s small inner muscles began to spasm. Hard. Fast. Unstoppable. Inevitable. The movement spread outward, tightening the muscles in her belly and back and thighs, drawing her nipples into stiff aching buds, arching her body up off of the bed until she was as taut as a quivering bow. Tom thrust into her twice more—deeply, powerfully, heavily—deliberately pushing her over the edge. She fell with a high keening cry, trilling her satisfaction and pleasure with the same lack of restraint she’d shown in going after it in the first place.

With a hard convulsive shudder, he let go and went over himself. The feeling began between his legs, pulling everything tight and hard, nearly painful in its intensity, radiating outward in pulsating waves that curled his toes inside his battered Tony Lamas and nearly caused his eyes to roll back in his head.

They collapsed onto each other,
into
each other in a boneless heap, trembling and damp, wrung out, replete, utterly satisfied. Several minutes passed in silence as they lay there, panting, still entwined, still intimately joined, and waited for the world to right itself around them.

Roxanne surfaced by slow degrees, the sensual haze clouding her mind dissipating bit by bit as she came back to herself. She could feel the hard round shape of his belt buckle pressing into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, feel the pearl snaps on his shirt pressing into her breasts and belly through the thin cotton fabric of her eyelet blouse. His breath was hot against her neck. His hands still cupped her bare bottom. His penis was still snug inside of her. He was a dead weight on top of her, a hundred and eighty pounds of exhausted, hard-muscled male, but she lay there quietly beneath him for several long contented minutes, her body deliciously relaxed and sated, and deliberately took stock of the situation.

Common sense would dictate that she should be feeling ashamed, or guilty, or at least foolish about what she had just done. Instead, she was absurdly pleased with herself. Good-girl Roxanne Archer had picked up a good-looking, dangerous cowboy in a tacky honky-tonk, taken him back to her tacky motel room, and had wild, raunchy sex with him. Nobody back in Connecticut would believe it. She could hardly believe it herself. And, yet, there she was, spread-eagled and flat on her back beneath said cowboy, still wallowing in the afterglow of a monumental, toe-curling, mind-bending orgasm—and thinking about doing it again as soon as humanly possible. Or as soon as they both got their breaths back.

She smoothed her hand down the long damp curve of his spine, under the pale blue shirt he still wore, to the hard swell of his bare buttock. “I don’t mean to complain, sugar.” She patted his fanny lightly, appreciatively. “But you’re smashing me flat.”

He grunted, a purely male sound that delighted her feminine soul, and levered himself up onto his elbows to relieve her of most of his weight. His head hung down between his shoulders, as if it were too heavy to lift just yet, his face still buried in the curve of her neck. She could feel his eyelashes, soft as butterfly wings, flutter against her skin as he opened his eyes, and then he raised his head and gave her a slow, sexy, self-satisfied smile.

“You get the license number of the truck that hit us?”

Roxanne smiled back, pleased and gratified by the implication that she wasn’t the only one who been broadsided by the big O. “What truck was that, sugar?” she said playfully, and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“Big ol’ eighteen-wheeler roarin’ down the highway at ninety miles an hour, at least. Knocked the stuffing right out of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You still feel pretty—” she made a little thrusting motion with her hips “—stuffed to me.”

Tom’s smile widened into a teasing, lopsided grin. “You’ve got your anatomy wrong, Slim. You’re the one who’s—” he countered the teasing movement of her hips with a quick thrusting movement of his own “—stuffed.”

Roxanne’s appreciative chuckle turned into a low throaty moan. Her hands tightened on the cheeks of his butt. Her back arched.

And, just like that, he was rock-hard again, as hot and horny and hungry as if he hadn’t just exhausted himself between her thighs. His teasing grin faded. The lazy glow in his eyes sharpened and focused. He pushed himself up onto his hands, pressing her hips more deeply into the mattress, and stared down at her, incredulous and amazed. He was thirty-one years old, for God’s sake! He wasn’t supposed to be ready for Round Two so soon.

“This is crazy,” he murmured, fighting the urge to begin thrusting like a wild man again. “
We’re
crazy. You know that, don’t you? Completely crazy.”

“Yes.” She tightened her hands on his backside, trying to press him closer, deeper. “I know. Crazy.”

“We’re both of us still half dressed.” He gave in to temptation, and the silent demand of her hands on his butt, and rotated his hips, grinding his pubis against hers. “Still got our boots on.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Boots. We should take our boots off and— Oh! Oh, yes.” The word was a long drawn-out hosanna of inarticulate appreciation. “Do that again.”

“I don’t even know your name.” He made another small, deliberate grinding motion. “You don’t know mine.”

“I know your name.” The words fluttered out in little panting breaths. “Your name is Tom Steele. And mine is Roxan—Roxy,” she corrected, catching herself. “Roxy Arch— Oh, yes! Again. Please.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her booted ankles at the small of his back to keep him inside her when he started to withdraw.
“Again!”
she demanded.

He did it again.

And then again.

Very slowly.

Very deliberately.

Very gently.

Roxanne bucked beneath him, her hips pistoning as she tried to increase the pace, and the pressure. “Faster,” she panted. “Harder. Oh, please.
Harder.
”

He gave in to one demand and resisted the other, pressing down harder, while at the same time restricting the movement of her hips with his until they were barely moving at all.

“Take it easy, Slim.” The words were low and soft, gritted out through clenched teeth as he struggled to resist her passionate demands and the inclinations of his own body. He wanted it to last a good long while this time, and that wasn’t going to happen if he let go and started thrusting like a madman. “Real slow and easy,” he murmured, suiting words to action as he ground his pelvis against hers. “Let’s make it last this time.”

Roxanne uttered an inarticulate protest and strained against him, her legs clamped around him like a vise, her thighs and belly taut and quivering, her back arched, her teeth clamped over her lower lip as she fought to take what he held just out of her reach.

“Easy,” he said, and ducked his head, brushing his mouth over hers, skimming his tongue over her abused lip. “Take it easy. Just let go and take it easy. We’ll get there.”

He continued to rotate his pelvis against hers, his engorged penis rock-hard and motionless inside her, his pubic bone pressing against her clitoris in a tiny, focused, unrelentingly gentle motion that seemed to go on forever, winding her tighter and tighter, like barbed wire being slowly, carefully tightened with a winch, stretching every muscle and nerve ending to the very edge of release, holding her there until she gave in and went limp beneath him, letting him take her where he would.

He rose, then, catching her legs in the crook of his elbows as they slid bonelessly from around his waist. He leaned forward, pulling her legs high and wide, opening her fully, and placed his hands on the bed beside her shoulders. And, finally, he began to thrust. Deep and slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that gradually—oh, so very gradually!—became faster and harder as she began to writhe beneath him.

Faster.

Harder.

Faster.

Harder.

Until, suddenly, it was too much and too hard and too fast, and everything broke loose in a wild, uncontrollable whirlwind of nearly unbearable sensation, like a hundred strands of bared wire that had snapped under intolerable pressure.

She screamed this time. It was a full-throated, unselfconscious scream of triumphant release that had the occupants of the neighboring room pounding on the wall and demanding quiet. Ignoring their demands, Tom uttered his own exultant shout of satisfaction and followed her into the spinning vortex.

“Next time,” he promised, just before he collapsed on top of her, “we’ll get our boots off first.”

R
OXANNE WAS DEFINITELY
sans boots when she woke up the next morning. She was also sans everything else, including blankets of any kind. She lay on her side on the rumpled bed, her knees drawn up, her naked flesh pebbling under the arctic blast of the air-conditioning unit in the window. Bright Texas sunlight glittered through the slatted blinds, creating a ladder-like pattern on the worn carpet, over the scattered articles of clothing and bed linens that littered the floor, and across the broad golden back of the naked man lying in bed beside her.

Her good-looking dangerous cowboy hadn’t disappeared with the morning’s light as she’d half feared he might, but lay facedown, taking up a full three-quarters of the motel bed, snoring ever so softly into his pillow.

Roxanne couldn’t help the idiotic grin that spread across her face at the sight of him. She also couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to run her hand over all that glorious masculine pulchritude. She would have thought she’d have gotten enough of him sometime during the long, sweaty, tempestuous night that had gone before, but she hadn’t. If anything, last night had only made her want more. More touching. More kissing. More of him. More of herself the way she was with him.

She’d never been so uninhibited. Never been so voracious and greedy. Never been so effortlessly responsive. It was a side of herself she hadn’t previously known existed and she wanted to explore it.

At length.

In depth.

Right now.

She tiptoed her fingers back up his spine and tickled the nape of his neck.

He stirred beneath her touch, the long lean muscles of his back flexing, the smooth rounded muscles of his shoulders bunching ever so slightly under his golden skin as he turned his head toward her. He blinked owlishly, not quite all there. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here this morning,” he said.

Her fingers stilled. “Are you disappointed that I am?”

“Lord, no!” He rolled to his side, levering himself up onto his elbow, catching her hand before she could draw it away. “I thought maybe I’d dreamed you, is all.”

“Then I must have been dreaming, too.”

He grinned. “Hell of a dream,” he said, and lifted her captured hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “I hate to see it end.”

“Who says it has to?” she said, and felt her heart flutter at the audacity of what she was about to suggest.

“Don’t you have someplace you have to be?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “A home? A job? Something?” He hesitated. “Someone?” he suggested.

“Nope. I’m free as a bird for the rest of the summer. There’s nowhere I have to be until September. No one I’m accountable to.” She looked up at him from under the veil of her lashes. “You interested?”